


The Past and Other Broken Things

by MostlyAnon



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M, Not A Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-26 05:24:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16675339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MostlyAnon/pseuds/MostlyAnon
Summary: Gates’ reacts with almost comical indignation. “What are you talking about? Are you-- I’m not gay!”Given their current position, Ortez finds this a particularly contradictory statement, even for Gates. He raises an eyebrow.“Alright, well, good point,” Gates concedes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In appreciation of and inspired by the particularly fantastic art of https://twitter.com/philosophikyo and https://twitter.com/synnesai 
> 
> I didn't ship them before the two of you and now they're in my head and won't shut up. There might yet be more.

Stakeouts were never much fun back when they were reconnaissance missions; they are even less so, now that Siris is gone. Felix had been born with a God given inability to be still or quiet, much less both at the same time. The job is the first thing they don’t argue about in a long time. 

Locus had watched Felix enter the club approximately half an hour ago and he barely stifles a sigh when he hears the light step on the roof behind him. Maybe, Locus thinks, if he just keeps looking through the scope, Felix will get bored and return to the job at hand. 

Instead, Felix gives up all pretense of stealth and throws himself onto the roof beside Locus, putting his back to the club below. He glances over his shoulder, then looks at Locus to ascertain his entertainment value. Neither of them talk, something that requires almost no effort on Locus’ part, but is a testament to how much Felix wants to keep to keep the fragile peace. 

It never lasts long, though. Eventually, Felix strikes a match off Locus’ shoulder and, a second later, Locus can smell the cigarette and practically nothing else except…

“Are you wearing cologne?” he asks. He doesn’t look up from the scope, because just talking to Felix was giving him too much attention.

As it is, Felix takes the question as a fully engraved invitation delivered by a bevy of couriers and accompanied by fireworks and fanfare. Locus has seen fully lit and staffed runways that were less inviting than Felix welcoming his question.

“Of course I am,” he says, gesturing down toward the club with the lit cigarette. “Every moron in that place is soaked in it.”

Locus considers this point with more solemnity than it deserves. “So they wouldn’t have smelled yours over theirs?” he asks, shifting his weight slightly.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Felix open his mouth, stop, then roll his eyes. Felix exhales smoke and makes a show of ignoring him, despite shifting around so his back rests against Locus. It’s uncomfortable for both of them, but Locus is uninterested in making life easier for Felix and Felix is uninterested in losing a second battle so soon.

“You’re going to give us away,” Locus comments, when Felix lights a second cigarette. 

“Hey, man, the only things that help us get along are drugs, sex, or violence,” Felix says, demonstrating more awareness of their current situation than Locus would have credited him for.

“Are you propositioning me?” Locus asks, largely because he’s honestly never been sure when it comes to the other man.

“Wha-No!” Felix almost falls off the roof, caught last minute by Locus’ grab. He settles himself again and waves his cigarette around in emphasis. “Sex with other people. Violence against other people. And I’m not sharing any drugs, either. In summary: no.”

Locus spares a thought to what the unabridged version of that little speech was like. They sit in silence a while longer before Felix adds: “...money, I guess. I don’t actively want to kill you when we’re working.”

“You’re a prostitute,” Locus observes, but Felix shakes his head with a wistful sigh.

“Man, I wish,” he says. “I wouldn’t be stuck on this roof if I were.”

“You aren’t stuck now,” Locus points out. “You’re supposed to be in the club.”

“I already set the bugs,” Felix says with a shrug. “I didn’t feel like dancing.”

Locus breathes out in wonder at the mystery that is his only remaining partner’s mind. It had been so much easier when Siris had been around. Now, everything is like…

“You remember that base we had to secure on Socrates?” he asks Felix.

“The frozen hell planet? Yeah,” Felix nods, looks up as he recalls it. “You got stuck on the ice.”

He hadn’t been stuck on the ice, not until Felix had come out to see what he was doing. Locus still remembers the feeling of ice beginning to crack underfoot and the sharp, sudden realization that their armor was neither airtight nor buoyant. They had barely managed to get back to the base alive.

“…And when we got back, Siris was furious because the rebels had attacked and he was the only one still standing,” Felix remarks, an eerie continuation of Locus’ own thoughts. He flicks his cigarette away and turns his head to look down at the club. “Are we done here?”

Not yet, Locus thinks, as he packs up the rifle. But he’s not sure how much longer it will be.

—

Wu is mowing his lawn when Ortez pulls up. It is the single most mundane thing Ortez can recall seeing in the past years and, for a moment, his brain is sluggish to understand what is happening before him. Wu, for his part, spots the rental car and turns off the mower, but otherwise makes no move towards the car. 

Inaction doesn’t suit Ortez, but he is slow to turn off the car and climb out. Wu doesn’t seem surprised he’s alone. Doesn’t seem surprised it’s _him_ , here. Ortez leaves his armor in the trunk and walks around the car to meet Wu on his turf.

There is a lot said, in the silence that passes between them. It was something he and Wu always shared; the ability to find comfort in things unsaid. Ortez’s mind skitters away from that thought and he can feel his breath go shallow and tight in his chest. He can hear ice cracking in his head and everything bleeds orange for a second before Wu grunts.

He turns away, toward the house. “You staying?”

“For a while?” Ortez cannot keep it from being a question.

Wu waves a hand without looking back. “You might as well unload your armor. You know Megan’s going to want to have a look at it.”

The conversation stays light. The food is excellent. The bed is large enough for him. 

He doesn’t sleep.

—

They are pinned down in the middle of a job, pressed close in a closet to avoid detection by three of the more violent and territorial local gangs. The gangs had been circling ever since the deal went sour and they barely had any time to find a hiding spot, despite having scouted beforehand. The closet was never meant to be walk-in for one, much less two fully grown men. In the gloom, Locus glares down at Felix, who has found a comfortable spot for his elbow in Locus’ ribs.

“Look, this isn’t on me,” Felix hisses, twisting around until he can look Locus in the… well, chin. He isn’t really tall enough to look him square in the eye. “That guy—“

He is interrupted by Locus’ hand clamped down over his mouth. His eyes widen in outrage, then narrow. A second later, Locus feels something wet against his palm and is disgusted with himself when he jerks his hand back from Felix's tongue.

“Don’t you ever shut up?” he asks, but before Felix can answer, they both look at the door. Footsteps on the stairs. They count in their heads, a full flight, then one more as whoever it was moves past their floor. Locus is still listening and that’s how Felix catches him, by surprise and waiting for a bullet to blow their cover.

There are other things on both their minds, but Felix makes a seductive case for distraction, for putting their mouths to a new use. It takes Locus longer than he’d like to process the kiss, most of his attention still on their pursuers. 

He reaches down to grab Felix’s wrist and pulls his arm up, pinning the other man to the closet wall and removing the elbow from his ribs. For his part, Felix takes this as invitation and Locus barely has time to think _that answers that question,_ before Felix is pressed against him and shoving his free hand down Locus’ pants. His hips jump in response to Felix’s grip, his breath stuttering. He isn’t sure how to take any of this, he needs to consider the ramifications of this, but his mind is a blank, heated blur and it's hard to think beyond _more._ There's barely any air in the closet, they are on a _job_ and—

They both freeze at the creak of the bedroom door.

Felix still has his hand wrapped around Locus’ cock when the gangbanger stops in front of the closet door. They shoot him twice, almost in tandem; the closet door opens on a rapidly spreading pool of blood. It is one of the most erotic experiences of either of their lives, but that only worries Locus.

“Later,” Locus says and he only realizes what he’s said when Felix’s eyes go hot and calculating. He is entirely too focused as he watches Felix lick his lips.

Gunshots pepper the entire wall and then there is no more time to think about this new development or what he’d meant when he said ‘later.’ 

They have a job to finish, first.

—

Flush from the job, Gates drags him to the cheapest motel on the planet and rents a room for twelve hours. When Ortez comments that neither of them will need the room that long, thinking only that neither of them needs much sleep, he receives an eye roll. Gates is uncharacteristically quiet as he drags Ortez to the room, and were it not for the hand wrapped around his wrist, Ortez would assume they were both going to ignore what happened on the job.

Instead, Gates has him backed against the shut door scant seconds after opening it. It doesn’t take either of them long to figure out where they left off, though there is some creative body language as they fight each other for dominance. Gates resorts to a hip throw, which only works because Ortez takes him down as he falls. 

They find harmony as they explore the possibilities their new position offers; Gates pushes him to the floor, but Ortez drags him down after, until Gates groans and throws a leg over his hips, bearing down. Ortez’s hands find his hips, holding him flush as Gates bites the spot under his jaw, just slightly too hard to be a true love bite. 

Gates’ lips are wet when he sits up to pull off his shirt. It gets discarded carelessly and Ortez licks his gaze over him with newfound appreciation, then, out of habit, he turns his head to check under the bed.

The debris underneath is awful enough to have him levering up, settling Gates astride him, close enough he can feel hot breath against his skin. He can see the thought that passes through Gates’ eyes and mind, and counts in his head until it passes through Gates’ lips. He gets to three.

“So,” Gates says, glancing down. He appears to notice Ortez’s shirt for the first time and leans forward slightly to pull it up, over Ortez’s head. The movement makes them both gasp and it takes them both a minute of struggle to figure out how to get the damn thing off. “Ah, how does this usually work?” Gates asks, tossing the balled up shirt into a corner with a particularly vicious throw.

The question is so unexpected that Ortez pulls back, frowning at him. “I thought you…” He isn’t entirely sure how he was intending to end that statement, but he never has to find out.

Gates’ reacts with almost comical indignation. “What are you talking about? Are you-- I’m not gay!” 

Given their current position, Ortez finds this a particularly contradictory statement, even for Gates. He raises an eyebrow.

“Alright, well, good point,” Gates concedes. “But, look, this,” he gestures between them a few times, “this is all _brand new_ for me. I thought you were… Honestly, I thought you were a robot. Not like Wu, but like a microwave or a toaster.”

Ortez is the one to roll his eyes this time. He stands up, lifting Gates without much effort and tossing him onto the bed. He sits up to watch Ortez cross the tiny room to the overpriced minibar. A swipe later and Ortez has a bottle of tequila, which, he considers as he drinks, might be the only thing to get either of them through this, one way or another.

Gates appears much cheered by his return, or rather, by the delivery of the alcohol. Ortez sits on the bed beside him and watches him drink. Gates glances over at him, then drinks again, deeper this time.

It takes them a while, but they eventually figure it out.

—


	2. Meant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Consider your lies  
> In light of what's real.
> 
> -Meant by Elizaveta

If Felix were forced to _really_ think about it, he’d eventually admit that, based on statistics alone, there had to be at least one other knife fighter as good as him, somewhere. Tossing a tactical blade in his off hand, he thinks it over. He’s killed more than a few who were just shy of being _as good_. Siris could go round for round with him, which he had respected up until the other man abandoned them for a picket white fence and two bedrooms in a good school district. Felix might assume living the soft life had made Siris soft, but Felix also knew there were graveyards full of people who’d been dumb enough to underestimate their ex-partner.

After the war, he’d been the one to find Locus and Siris, he'd been the one to talk them into reuniting. It might have been born of sleep deprived desperation, but Felix had always been good at getting other people to do things his way, especially when his back was against a wall. He knew from the start that his partners were his only chance at landing the clients he wanted. A merc on his own wasn't much of an asset, but the three of them had successfully taken down more than one militia. If Felix’s going to suffer through sleepless nights and the slow, helpless suffocation of PTSD, he’s damn well going to do it in luxury.

"It looks like a standard pay off," Locus says, closing the dossier. He looks over his shoulder at Felix.

Knife fighters don’t watch the blade. They watch goddamn everything, because knife fighting, like fucking, is all about taking subtle hints. He’d watched Siris grow more and more restive, out of harmony with the jobs and the life. Time on furlough… what was it, not furlough, it was called something else by civilians… time with his family, time off the job started to become longer than time on the jobs, until one day, Siris had walked away for good. His going had been a painful relief and wrecked Felix’s peaceful, albeit often violent, way of life. 

Locus had become quieter. Fights had become more frequent. Everything was off, like a jammed round ruining an otherwise perfect gun. He fixed it once. He can fix it again.

“Are you going to transmit the contract?” Locus asks.

Felix sheaths the knife and grins easy at the other man. "Already done."

—

Gates likes bars, but he likes fights, too, at the difference between a good bar and a good fight isn’t as pronounced as he’d like. 

He pulls from his beer as he and Ortez wait for the credits to finish transferring. Watches the way Ortez watches the bar, taking note of the places where his partner’s eyes linger and skim.

They aren’t talking, not after Felix had run his mouth off at the mark. It bothers Gates, but he knows he’ll end up saying something, breaking the silence in some way, just for relief. The same way he knows Ortez will let it go.

Scratch that. He isn’t sure what all Ortez is willing to hold on to, anymore. 

They’re the last two. Felix won’t be the last one, if he can help it.

—

Gates falls back on an exhale, staring at the ceiling in contemplation. He’d enjoyed himself more than he expected to, on a whole. There are some very definite possibilities, for sure.

He lets his head fall to the side, looking at Ortez’s profile.

“What?” the other man asks. 

Without thinking, Gates snags the half empty tequila bottle and hands it over. Ortez’s hand is waiting for it and the little bit of harmony does more to settle Gates than his orgasm had.

“Nothing,” he says and takes the bottle back, to drink himself. 

If this is all it costs to keep his partner from leaving, well… 

He can live with that.

—

Felix falls back on an exhale, staring at the ceiling in contemplation. He’d enjoyed himself more than he expected to, on a whole. There are some very definite possibilities, for sure.

“Tell me you have enough,” he says, wondering if there was time for a cigarette.

“What?” the rebel’s gun doesn’t waver, even when Felix wraps his fingers around the muzzle and presses the thing to his forehead.

“Of your whole self righteous villain monologue,” Felix clarifies. “You’re not going to shoot me. Do you know why?”

“I’ve got it,” Locus’ confirmation is brief and over the comm. “Do you need an evac?”

The rebel looks wary and frowns. There is just no way this kid is old enough to be running a rebellion. Felix feels older every goddamn day.

“Because—“ Felix starts, then jerks hard on the kid’s weapon. The kid stumbles forward even as Felix flips the gun around and fires a burst into his gut.

“Felix?” Locus says, infinitely patient, infinitely cold.

Felix rolls to his feet and throws the gun on the kid’s body. “Yes, mother?”

“Are you coming?"

Gates blinks at Ortez, who’s a few steps ahead and definitely not in the middle of extraction. He covers the stumble by fishing a cigarette out and lighting it; as a bonus, he buys some time to figure out where and when he is.

“Nah,” he says, catching up with his partner, “I’m just breathing hard.”


End file.
